


Duck Watching

by Julibean19



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bakery and Coffee Shop, M/M, Meet-Cute, POV Jack Zimmermann
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 21:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13622097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julibean19/pseuds/Julibean19
Summary: The risks and benefits of getting distracted by ducks while out for your morning run.





	Duck Watching

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, Samwellhockeyy! You asked for fluff, meet-cute, and coffee shop! I tried to get all three in there plus a little flirting and ogling. Hope you enjoy it!

During hockey season, Jack doesn’t often get the chance to run through Providence.  Most days he spends countless hours in the gym or on the ice with his team.  All too frequently he’s on the road, squished beside Tater on a coach bus or pacing the aisle of an airplane.  Sometimes he just can’t force himself to go outdoors knowing fans will accost him or not-so-subtly raise their cell phones to catch a candid.

In the off-season, though, when hockey is off his city’s radar, Jack takes his time.  He pounds the pavement early every morning, taking in the scent of the changing season, scoping out places he’d like to return to with his camera, feeling the sweat drip down his throat as the sun breaks over the horizon.  After more than half the year on the road, Jack looks up and down the street and swears it’s a whole new town.  There are storefronts he doesn’t recognize and dogwoods blooming in the park that must have been freshly planted because Jack can’t remember seeing them last spring.

He doesn’t always listen to headphones, but there’s a new Eisenhower biography out and Marty just showed him how to put it on his phone at the Falconer’s BBQ last week.  Jack finds himself absorbed, listening to the words of the president’s farewell address as he enters his sixth mile.  Eyes fixed on the ducks on the pond, admiring the way the dawn filters through the hazy clouds, Jack doesn’t realize he’s hit something until it’s already happening.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” a shocked voice shouts and then Jack is on the ground, tumbling through the grass, the weight of someone else’s body landing on him hard.

In a daze, Jack blinks, pressing back on his palms.  He winces at the sting of whatever gravel has been embedded in his right hand as the world rights itself.  There’s a man hovering six inches above him, also held up on his bare, outstretched arms.  He’s thin but fit, compact and muscled.  He’s strikingly blond and busy licking his lower lip, dragging Jack’s focus upward.

"Je suis désolé, je m’excuse,” Jack pleads, eyes roving over the man’s face, the way the rising sun catches in his hair.  Whoever he is, he still hasn’t moved, body weight still pressing down on Jack’s thigh, chest still brushing Jack’s stomach. 

“Oh, Lord,” the man says, eyes darting down to Jack’s lips before widening in shock.  “I’m sorry!” he adds quickly, scampering backward until he’s no longer touching Jack.  “I don’t know how I didn’t see you.  You just came out of nowhere,” the man says in a light Southern drawl.  “Are you alright?”

Jack immediately misses the loss of his warmth even though the sun is heating up and he’s already sweating profusely.  “I’m fine,” Jack says in a daze, pushing himself to standing.  “Are  _ you _ alright?  It was my fault.  I was looking at the ducks.”

“The ducks?” the man asks, eyes lighting up as he smiles.  He looks over Jack’s shoulder back to the pond and starts to laugh.  It’s bright and kind and makes Jack chuckle at himself as well.  “What about the ducks?”

“I just… like taking photos of ducks,” Jack says dumbly.  

“A photographer, huh?” he asks, wrapping his headphones around his phone and pocketing it, eyes on Jack all the while.

“Hockey player, actually,” Jack says, wiping the gravel off his right hand before offering it.  “Jack Zimmermann.”

“Eric Bittle,” the man says, taking Jack’s hand.  It’s dwarfed by Jack’s, but his touch is firm and warm, and Jack finds himself charmed.  There’s dirt smeared across the thigh of Eric’s leggings and a wet-looking grass stain coloring his crop top.   

Jack blushes furiously when his eyes travel downward over Eric’s abs.  “I’m really sorry,” Jack says again, collecting his dropped phone from the ground and tapping pause on his audiobook in an effort to hide his face.  “Can I make it up to you?”

“How about you buy me a cup of coffee,” Eric offers, a shy smile on his face as he looks Jack over appreciatively.  

“Of course,” Jack says immediately.  It’s the least he can do for running Eric over.  “Where?” he asks.  Jack doesn’t drink coffee and can’t even remember where the local Starbucks is.

“I know a place,” Eric says, beckoning Jack to follow him with a tilt of the head.  Light and quick, he darts back over to the path and jogs away, thighs and glutes flexing with the movement.  

It takes a second for Jack’s body to connect to his brain and he has to move quickly to catch up, but soon he’s just a few steps behind Eric.  He’s breathing more heavily than he should, forcibly dragging his eyes away from Eric’s bare waist and back to the sidewalk, hoping to save himself the embarrassment of tripping over his own feet and into Eric for a second time.

Five minutes and a few teasing quips about Jack’s sneakers later, Eric slows to a walk and heads into a shop, holding the door open for Jack.  It’s early still, just past 5:20 a.m., and the place is deserted.  The tiny bell over the door echoes cheerfully off the chalkboard menu.  Jack heads for the counter and cranes his neck to look into the kitchen for an employee, but he doesn’t see anyone.

“Are you sure they’re open?” he asks, frowning at the clean marble countertop.  “Maybe we should go somewhere else.”  The pastries in the display case look amazing, and Jack does allow himself to splurge a little over the summer, but there’s no one around to serve them anything.

“Don’t be silly,” Eric says, slipping around the counter and reaching for two mugs.  He pours two cups from the pot and slides them in front of Jack’s hands.  “Now what are you hungry for?  You sound like a maple sort of man,” he says, pulling on a plastic glove and sliding open the back of the case.

“What are you doing!” Jack frets, eyes wide with shock.  “You can’t just help yourself!  This is a really nice place!” he adds, like that makes it worse somehow to steal a couple of maple filled doughnuts and two slices of apple pie, if Jack is reading the tiny signs correctly.

“Why thank you, Mister Zimmermann,” Eric says, smirking slyly as he pulls off the glove and closes the case back up.  “It’s mine.”

“What’s yours?” Jack asks, feeling three steps behind again as he watches Eric bring their plates over to a small table in the front window.

He points at the window etching and grins as Jack struggles to read backward.  

“Bitty’s Bakery?” Jack asks, eyes narrowing as he puts the pieces together.  “Your last name…” he says, eyebrows rising.  “You’re Bitty?”

“It’s my nickname,” Eric says, grabbing their coffees and a small tray of fixings off a sidebar.  “You can use it if you like.  Almost everyone in town does.”

“You leave the door to your bakery open?” Jack asks, still a little confused.  

“Lardo is in the back prepping salads for the lunch menu,” Bitty says, chest shaking with mirth.  “I’m sure she heard it was me coming in and not a customer.  I always slip out for a run before the morning rush.”

Jack looks around again with fresh eyes, taking in the smooth script handwriting on the chalkboard and the rich, dark hardwood floors, the gleaming countertop and the cute little awning he’d missed on the way in.  “This place is incredible,” he says, smiling fondly at Eric, who is getting more intriguing by the minute.  From his outfit to his accent to his place of business, every little thing Jack learns about Bitty only leaves him wanting more.

“You haven’t tried the food yet,” Bitty says, handing Jack a fork.  “While I’m glad you like the decor, I’m gonna need you to try the food before you go making claims like that.  If I’m going to get an endorsement from ‘Mister Providence’ himself, it’s gonna need to be legitimate.”

Accepting the fork, Jack considers Bitty.  

Nothing about his demeanor suggests he’s seeking fame.  In fact, this is the first time he’s so much as insinuated that he knows who Jack is.  Giving the man the benefit of the doubt, Jack digs his fork into the slice of pie, swiping it through the whipped cream garnish on his way.  The apples are cool and crunchy and Jack is surprised to find that he can taste maple in the crust, familiar and sweet on his tongue.  When he looks up, Bitty is biting his lip, hands clenched around his mug of creamy brown coffee.

“Well?” he asks, releasing his lip but still apprehensive.

“It’s perfect,” Jack says, going back for a second bite.  He savors it with a smile on his lips and washes it down with a sip of his drink.  Even the black coffee is smooth and flavorful.  It’s enough to make Jack reconsider his stance on caffeine.  

Bitty grins, soft brown eyes lighting up as he explains his process to Jack.  “Normally I’d heat it up and it would have this nice temperature contrast with the chantilly,” he says quickly, eager to share, “but as the spring starts to warm up, a little cold fruit can do a body good.  Don’t you think?”

Jack nods, speechless.

“I had you pegged for an apple man, but you have to try my peach next,” Bitty carries on, accent seeming to thicken as he gets more and more excited.  “I have ‘em shipped right from the farm I grew up near in Georgia.  You can’t find a sweeter peach north’a Dixie.  My mama taught me that.  Sweeter fruit just means less refined sugar and a smoother texture in your filling.  Now, it’s a bit early for peach, but if you come back in July I’ll have peach cobbler and tarts and even parfaits for you healthy types.”

“You’re a healthy type,” Jack says, feigning offense.  “You just ran here with me and you’re fast!  How many miles did you do this morning?”

“I was working on number 8 when a big ‘ol Canadian moose bowled me over,” Bitty teases, digging his fork into his own slice of pie.  “Bakery opens at 5:30, so I’m up early prepping.”

“Do you ever sleep?”

“I nap in the afternoon,” he says when Jack rolls his eyes.  “I’m sure you nap, too, Mister Zimmermann.”

“I’d need two naps if I was up before 4 every morning,” Jack says, wondering how late Bitty might stay up at night.

“I eat a lot of pie and a boy needs to keep his figure somehow!” Bitty huffs, reaching for his coffee again.

“I’m not judging,” Jack laughs, wiping his mouth on a napkin and using it to clean his hand before reaching for the doughnut.  “I’m impressed.”

Bitty flushes again and ducks his head.  It’s so endearing Jack has to shove half of the doughnut in his mouth to keep him from saying something stupid like,  _ I like your laugh and your hair and everything else about you, please be my boyfriend. _

“Câlisse,” Jack curses before he even manages to swallow.  He’s pretty sure the maple filling in this doughnut is the best thing that’s ever been in his mouth.

Bitty’s eyebrows fly up and Jack’s throat spasms as he clears his throat.  “I’m sorry?” Eric laughs, tossing another napkin at Jack who is now covered in powdered sugar.  

“Uhh,” Jack hedges, embarrassed.  “It’s so good I said a bad word.”  He finishes the doughnut in another bite, savoring it this time.  The dough is light and fluffy and the filling tastes just like tire d'érable, the maple taffy he used to eat off snow as a child.

“Well,” Bitty says, exhaling the word happily, “that’s the best review a baker could ask for.”

“I think I’m going to need another one of those,” Jack says, licking the sugar off his fingers.

“Coming right up,” Bitty says, grinning as he leaps out of his chair, crop top fluttering around his stomach as he dances between tables.  

Jack’s eyes trail slowly from the hair at the nape of Eric’s neck, dark with sweat, past his Venusian dimples, and lower still over the stretch of the leggings across Bitty’s thighs.  His mouth goes dry and he hides his face in his coffee mug.  

“Here you are, sugar,” Bitty says, sliding another plate in front of Jack.  There are two doughnuts on it this time and Bitty hasn’t even eaten his first one yet.  They’re both for Jack.

It’s taking all of Jack’s willpower not to think about how many crunches each doughnut will cost him.  “You know,” he says, licking his lips as he reaches for the pastry.  “It doesn’t count as me buying you coffee unless you let me pay for it.”

Bitty bites down on his lip once more, running a hand through the front of his hair.  “How about you take me out to dinner then?” he asks, then takes a nonchalant sip of his coffee.

“How about tonight?” Jack asks as the bell chimes again.

“I dine at five,” Bitty says primly, raising his eyebrows in challenge.

“Five it is then,” Jack replies, smiling smugly down at his plate of doughnuts as Bitty flounces off to serve his new customers.  He eats these pastries slowly, pausing after every bite to lick the sugar from his fingers and lips, catching Bitty’s eye whenever he can.  

When Bitty overfills a cup of coffee a few minutes later because he’s staring at Jack’s throat, he starts to wonder if it would be presumptuous to stay for lunch.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my lovely beta, CaptainVonChan and my friend OceansAndSpace for correcting my French yet again.
> 
> Translations: "I'm sorry, forgive me." and a wee bit of Quebecois cursing.


End file.
